Black Magic
by Whilom
Summary: INDEFINITE HIATUS. No one knows what happened to Murtagh in the subterranean tunnels except two magicians and Murtagh himself. And after is only known by Murtagh and Galbatorix...
1. Black Magic

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Paolini's.**

**A/N:** Thanks for the idea from Dragon Rider of Alagaesia!

* * *

Clashing sounds and bright light skittered across his consciousness, followed by muffled movements, whispers, and dark. He didn't know where he was, but he preferred the dark with no noises, the kind that overtook the hushed darkness every so often after a sharp pain, generally to the back of his head. He didn't know if he ever opened his eyes, but he assumed that he did. Once he saw a blurred image of a face devoid of emotion, but then he felt pain riddle through his spine and he tried not to open his eyes again. It hurt anyways. Anything to escape at least some of the pain.

Someone was scuffling around him, ripping off his gauntlets, then his tunic. He shivered in the damp dark without it. There was the sound of tearing cloth, of unsheathed steel, and then he felt the cold prick of a knife against his vein. Something warm flowed against his palm and between his fingers, and his arm was smeared against the ground.

"_We cannot have him dead. We'll have to use some of our own,"_ a hushed voice said and he felt something trace up his arm to heal it.

As he hovered between consciousness and sleep, he forced himself to recall everything that had happened since he last felt like himself. At first he was only able to hold on to consciousness long enough to remember his name and his heritage as Morzan's son, something he had always done subconsciously, before blackness swirled around him again. Then he stretched, ignoring as best he could the persistent flashes of fire that always seemed aimed at his head, and remembered fighting, his journey with the Varden's leader, their ambush from the Urgals, the strange swirl of mist that had surrounded their band until only he was left with Ajihad and the Twins.

Then.

Then the pain had begun.

Not the normal pain he was used to, where you could center on where the hurt was coming from and grit your teeth and bear it. This pain was different, not like having a wound; it seemed to generate from an outside source but it bloomed from within his body. It felt like the daggers that danced up and down his spine were cutting from inside him; like the incessant pounding near his temples was from his own heartbeat; like the raw ache that steadily grew to make every movement painful was something he had always lived with.

Yes, he remembered.

Murtagh opened his eyes hesitantly, bringing to mind how difficult it had been only yesterday. But that was when he had still been under the Twins' complete control. They were either tired from constant surveillance, or he was growing stronger. Or perhaps they merely decided that enough was enough. After all, how much pleasure could one derive from seeing a captive twist in agony as he was dragged by magic through dark, subterranean tunnels?

He was greeted by the sweep of a purple robe and a lifeless cackle before he felt his throat constrict until he was gasping for breath.

_Oh. That's how much_, he thought faintly as black spots swirled before his eyes.

"You'd do well to remember that we can exercise our power over you, _weakling_," one of the Twins sneered, "at will."

"Don't provoke us," the other hissed, landing Murtagh a kick in the ribs before turning away to confer with the other.

Murtagh lay on his side obediently, refusing to move a cramped muscle even though his legs protested from disuse. He'd been taken this far by magic, he knew, probably because of his incapacitated state from the Twins'…treatment. But from the looks on their faces and the rising ire in their voices, he guessed that from here he would have to move on his own without help.

_And probably with some hindrance_, he added as the Twins' sent him a venomous glance and began moving down the dark tunnel again, small globules of light in their hands lighting the path before their feet. A sudden jerk around his neck made him lurch forward and instinct told him to pull back. His resistance earned him a sharp blow from one of the Twins and another jerk from the invisible chain that seemed to be the Twins' way of keeping control of him. This time he got up quickly and followed the older men's robed figures, testing warily how far the invisible bond would let him stray. Another jerk after dawdling nearly eight feet behind them told him he wouldn't be allowed out of their sight—or their fists.

He didn't have to guess where they were going. He had only one enemy. It all made sense now, everything the Twins had done, had wanted to do to him. They were hypocrites, the worst of liars. And in his eagerness to prove himself he had given up his own safety while striving for something that might have any number of names: truth, honor, respect. Maybe it was the culmination of all three, but whatever it was, he hadn't attained it.

In another situation, Murtagh would have taken his frustration out on himself. As it was, he found the opportunity for more damage wasn't one he wanted to take. And from the glares and angry tugs the Twins' were giving him, he figured it'd be all he could do to make it to Galbatorix in one piece.

* * *

**A/N: **So, not really a cliffy. But, YES, there is a second chapter. Dum dum duuuuuuuum! And if you're wondering, no clue where this piece is going...none. I have no plot. No conclusion. Just a bunch of evil bald-men cackling and Murtagh being tortured. But really, I'm hoping it's better than just that. ;) 


	2. Fire and Ice

**Disclaimer:** Well, it is a disclaimer...sort of self-explanatory.

**A/N: **Yes, it is super duper short. Sorry for that. More to come, when my Muse strikes me (with a gigantic book, most likely; or a sledgehammer when she's feeling particularly ruthless...).

* * *

Murtagh slumped against the earth wall and raised his hands to his neck for perhaps the thousandth time to probe the raw flesh with his fingers. There was no barrier that he could sense, nothing at all, yet he knew something was there because he always felt it choking him, dragging him down the dark pathways to somewhere he didn't want to go.

"Get up." The command was punctuated by a blow that Murtagh wearily dodged. The man towering above him didn't seem to mind his captive's refined impudence. Instead, a small smile curled his lips and he crooked his finger at the young man.

Murtagh felt the familiar pull on his neck and slid his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly as though it made a difference. The pull became an insistent tug that began burning the back of his neck, an incessant reminder of pain. He lifted his arm futilely, waving it in front of him as though to take the chain in his hands. He was suddenly jerked forward to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps and coughs. The moment he supported himself with his hands he felt ice shiver up his arms, lacing through his veins and slowing his heart. It spread through his chest, through his whole body as he collapsed on the ground, too weary to hold himself up any longer, too weak to realize that he was clawing his neck with his fingernails in an effort to stop the burning. Air wheezed in his chest, his lungs pumping with difficulty because of the ice, but his throat, his throat was on fire, and red, judging from the strange stains on his fingers when they flashed before his hazy vision. A small voice was rattling around in his head, pounding at his skull, and shouting something about suffocation. It was harder to breathe now than it had ever been, and the more he tried to stop the burning in his throat with his ice-cold hands, the more difficult it was to draw in air.

The Twins watched with suppressed glee as the young warrior scrabbled on the ground, the sound of his choking echoing off the tunnel walls. He was suffocating himself with his own hands, trying to push his icy palms against the hot fire at his throat.

"How long should we let him alone?" one man asked.

The other, not moving his eyes from Murtagh, shrugged.

"He'll stop when he's had enough."

"He'll blame us, you know. He's clever. Intelligent. He'll tell the king all."

The second man folded his arms. "Not if we silence him."

"Galbatorix will not appreciate a mute slave," he protested.

"We needn't injure him permanently…."

The Twins looked down dispassionately as the young man stopped writhing and lay on the floor, his hands still clutching his throat, his breath like the hissing of a funnel. He rolled to his side, facing them, his eyes unfocused but squinting up as though trying to plead for something he would not.

Murtagh saw his vision elongate into a dark tunnel with the two older men at the end of it, growing smaller and smaller…then black. The comfortable kind that he welcomed.

"His mind still hides some secrets, I'm sure." One of the bald men bent down and placed a hand on Murtagh's forehead. "I'd like to know…"


	3. Right of Blood

A slight breeze ruffled Murtagh's hair, lifting it from his sweaty brow and whisking away his worries. He could feel it moving against his closed lids and it promised warmth and sun and comfort, but when he breathed it in it tasted musty and old—trapped.

Then reality came crashing down.

He felt strangely bare and he didn't want to open his eyes for fear that he would see something worse than he felt.

"Ah, he wakens," purred a voice near his right ear and he flinched away from it. The voice followed. "Rise, Morzansson."

Rapidly, Murtagh got to his feet and blindly lashed out at the Twins, wrestling one of them to the ground until the other used magic to drag him off, still struggling. Instead of seeing anger, he was shocked to watch as smiles rose on both of their faces, despite one Twin's bloody lip.

"You are very strong, Murtagh. Very, very strong-willed. Our lord will have a difficult time breaking you."

"Don't call me that," he said raggedly, fighting the exhaustion that preyed on his mind. His head was pounding and his throat and chest burned, but he couldn't understand why. It might have been better to rise from the dark oblivion slowly instead of fighting it so vehemently.

"It is your name, boy. Your heritage."

Quickly, Murtagh ran through his racing thoughts, checking to see if he had mentioned anything, any _hint_ that he was as they claimed. Nothing. He never told anything—the name had hardly passed his lips in his entire life—and now two dark magicians claimed they knew. How? Rage balled up inside his chest, making it even more painful to breathe, as he realized they had searched him, battered down his defenses and delved in his past. He sagged against the magic he was fighting against, his emotions draining him. He wanted to whisper one broken word: _"Why?"_

"And you would do well to remember, our lord Galbatorix does not take well to family arrangements. He practically murdered your mother, you know," one Twin was saying.

"What do you know of my mother?" he growled. "Nothing!"

One Twin tutted irritatingly. "Nothing that a little concentration couldn't fix. Let me commend you, Murtagh, you are very strong. I'll admit, it was harder than we realized, but we shouldn't have expected less given your heritage. Even Eragon's mind was difficult—"

"What does Eragon have to do with this?" Murtagh interrupted, his head snapping up.

The Twins looked surprised. "Why, haven't you been listening?" they quipped. "Your brother's training had hardly begun and he still showed the same fortitude as you." One Twin turned to the other excitedly. "The king must be counting on the right of blood. His brother has become a Rider. His father was a Rider." Their glee was unmistakable. Galbatorix was more cunning than they had realized and they were delighted to subject their skills to a man who would know how to use them.

If Murtagh had thought his head was reeling before, it was nothing to how it felt now. _Eragon…my brother…_ The Twins' laughter echoed in the cavern and Murtagh crumpled to the floor, released from his magic bonds. _"The king must be counting on the right of blood…."_

That was it. Galbatorix wanted him for a Rider. His father had been a Rider. His brother was a Rider. He would be a Rider. Did he even have a choice in the matter? And if he did have a choice, which would he choose? _"All my life I've dreamed of dragons,"_ he had said to Eragon. And here was his dream, about to come true if the king of Alagaesia had anything to say about it. It was more of a living nightmare. Things had soon become more complicated than he could have guessed, and he felt himself longing for the simple pain and darkness that had first enveloped him on this journey underground. This pain, this emotional jarring, was more than he could handle.

One Twin, the one with the bloodied lip, noticed his defeated stance and narrowed his eyes. "Fear not, Morzansson. Urubaen is not far and Galbatorix will have a place of honor for you. We've come to the end of the tunnels and will travel openly in Galbatorix's kingdom in less than two days. I'm sure the people will wish to see their future Rider."

"Don't say it like that," Murtagh snarled.

The Twins looked at him incomprehensively.

"Don't say it like I don't have a choice," he explained further, hardly aware that he was nearly begging.

"Oh, foolish boy," one of the Twins leered, "but you don't."


	4. Tunnels and Bruises

**A/N:** Sorry it's taking so long for an update. I just whipped this up, so I'm not sure how it compares with the rest...

* * *

It was only two days later, but it felt like an eternity, when their small party finally emerged from the tunnels and Murtagh was able to stagger into the blinding sun. It hurt his eyes even when he clenched them shut, but he wanted to be able to see it and feel it on his skin, to have it take away the chill that the tunnels had given him and the Twins had prolonged. They seemed less happy to be in the open: Their eyes searched their surroundings at all times and the confidence they had displayed for their king seemed to have faded. They seemed even more snake-like in the sun than they had in the dark.

Murtagh wondered how much he had changed. He could imagine the bruising under his eyes from lack of sleep, the bruising on his skin from the beatings, the bruising on his spirit from the constant oppression. Bruises. He was covered in bruises, beaten black and blue from experiences he never wished to relive again. He had heard it before, _"Morzan's son, a bruise, a blight upon the earth."_ He had been angry when people said it before, but now he was too soul-weary to care. Perhaps that was all his life carried for him—bruises.

"Come up here!" snarled a Twin, pulling Murtagh roughly by the arm until he saw the outskirts of the town they had arrived at. They were outside Urubaen. And inside…was his worst nightmare.

"We cannot use our skills in public—the common people do not take kindly to powerful displays…."

Murtagh almost felt a flicker of hope at the information. Their skills…their magic. His hands easily found their way to his neck, where they had spent so much time over the past days, and he felt the subtle release of the invisible chain that had bound him to them. They couldn't hurt him like that so long as they were in the city. But within Galbatorix's palace, he was sure his "disciplines" would be conducted solely by magic. This small jaunt would be a welcome break before he was taken into Galbatorix's stronghold.

"…stay with us." The Twin's fingers bit into his shoulder and he hastily nodded, despite the fact that he didn't exactly know to what he had agreed.

"Good," the other Twin hissed and they moved forward to the massive gates, striving to look normal and important at the same time. The guards didn't keep them long. Apparently they were well known and Murtagh had to wonder how often they had communicated with Galbatorix while the Varden remained in hiding. They were allowed to enter but they spent no time at all in the square. They hurried through the streets as if they had orders to leave the city as quickly as possible. Murtagh leaned against an alley wall to catch his breath as the Twins held a whispered conference as to what was the best way to enter the palace without it being widely known that the king had found the son of Morzan. That fact would be paraded about after Galbatorix had acquired Murtagh's oath. For now, their coming was to be a secret.

_And then who will have heard of or seen a young man, supposed to be dead by his friends, in the presence of his enemies?_ Murtagh wondered hopelessly. The moment he entered those doors he would be lost.

The thought had hardly entered his mind before his body reacted. He took off at a dead run, sprinting away from the magicians and hoping against hope that he could find his way back to the city gates through the many alleys and passageways he had been led through. Far too soon he felt his heart begin to flutter between its strong beats, and his feet dragged on the cobblestones like he was carrying a great weight. Daring a glance behind, he saw the Twins running as well, but hardly as though they were losing their great prize. In fact, it seemed as though they were gloating….

Murtagh skidded to a halt when he saw the guarded passageway he had been running toward. Two guards stood outside it, but, seeing him running from the Twins, they had lifted their spears and were also trying to herd him in. They were almost to him now. He dodged to the side and felt hands claw at his tunic. He wildly tried to shrug them off but more were added to it and he was forced to the ground, face turned into the stone, his arms pulled behind him painfully as heavy iron manacles were clamped on his wrists.

One guard bent to place manacles on his ankles but the Twins stopped him. "He won't run again. He hasn't anything left," they said gleefully.

The words ran together in Murtagh's mind, growing as fuzzy as his vision. His tongue felt thick and his heart was pounding in his temples. A knee shoved into his back and his breath left him to the dark tunnel of his mind.

_Tunnel, tunnel. Always tunnels. Bruises, too, with the tunnels. Why is it always dark?_ he wept, knowing somehow that he was shaming himself by doing so, but he couldn't help it. He was as trapped in his subconsciousness as he had been in the tunnels, as he would be in the one he was going into right now. And he hated it.


	5. Blood Red

**A/N:** Yes, I know it's short. It's super short. It's probably the shortest chappie I've written, and I apologize. My muse is dead I think. No, don't panic. I will revive her! Once I figure out where I'm going to college, among other things... This is just to tide you over.

* * *

Galbatorix rubbed his temples wearily, wishing he could make these two insipid magicians leave him in peace. They had entered his throne room with a conceited air that nudged at his consciousness. They had agreed to serve him, yes, but they still had a view of themselves that was…too great. Granted, they had brought him his prize. He had even arrived in one piece which was something given the Twins' depraved reputation. Galbatorix had heard tales…victims hurting themselves in their frenzy to escape the magic-induced pain…men broken from having their innermost thoughts ripped from them…pain that shattered the inside as well as the outside of a body, pain that entered the soul…

Yet were not these the very men best suited to begin breaking his Rider? They claimed Morzan's son was strong, intelligent, eager. All traits that had once belonged to Morzan. Traits that could easily be twisted into stubbornness, craftiness, fervor for his cause. He had twisted them in Morzan. He would twist them in Murtagh.

The two magicians finally bowed and scraped their way out the room, unnerved probably by the king's seeming lack of interest. Of course he wasn't interested in _them_. Their time would come, when he would speak with them of Murtagh's training. But he had no Rider yet and he wasn't ready for one. Give a man power, give him a way out, give him freedom, and the rebellion would have yet another Rider in their ranks. Before Murtagh would be taken in the presence of the eggs, he must be trained in responsibility. He was owned, now, and it boded ill if he must be constantly disciplined while his dragon might share some of his pain.

The tyrant swept out of his throne room, easily following the twisting path which led to the chamber dedicated to storing the dragon eggs. He had traced it infinite times before, sometimes in the dead of night, to make sure the rebellion's hope was in vain. They had taken an egg before. He would see to it that they would not take another.

The room was dark but for a roaring fire, fed from the furnace below, which cast shadows from the two eggs resting near it. Both, green and red, were oblong in shape with underlying colors and wisps of patterns that hinted of beauty. But it was the red that held his eye. There was no visible movement, no sign that something lurked within it, but he was certain…this one would hatch first. This one would choose Murtagh, Morzan's son, as its Rider. This one, scarlet red, would count on heritage, on tradition. Green spoke of new life, new ways. Blue had been loyalty and truth. But red…red was fire, was passion, was strength and intelligence and eagerness. Red was Murtagh.

Galbatorix let out a laugh at the appropriateness of it. He had counted on the right of blood. And the blood-red egg would give it to him.

* * *

**A/N: **No, sorry, no Murtagh in this chapter. He'll be in the next one! But what's a good story if there's no plot and it's all about ONE CHARACTER who is in every single scene? -blank stare- Alright, so if he's the hero then it's fine. But Galbatorix needed to brood and Murtagh needed a break so that way he's not going to be a total wimp next time the Twins visit...and, oh, I think that chapter's going to be good. ;) 


	6. Sanctuary

**A/N**: I know, in the _Eragon_ book the Twins already tried to enter Murtagh's mind. Just pretend they hadn't really, or they had been stopped or something. Just roll with the drama. ;)

Here's a long chapter. Well, the longest I've written, I think. I have NO CLUE where to go after this. Suggestions? This chapter may be rough, I just whipped it up just now, I tell you. Revieweth, I command thee!

* * *

In the darkness, the two figures could hardly be seen. One remained in the shadows, had remained there for hours with a twisted smile lurking on his face. The other lay on the cold floor, shivering but asleep, huddled in the small patch of moonlight afforded by the barred window. The figure in the shadows noticed with some degree of pleasure. It would have to be boarded up, once the young man was stronger. He remembered well the way Morzan had tried to flee that way, before he finally came to his senses and realized the good Galbatorix would spread throughout Alagaesia. Then they had truly become friends, not just allies.

This cell had not been used since—until now. And the figure on the floor looked startlingly like his old friend. The same chiseled features, the same dark hair, the same strong, lithe build which spoke of a heritage of warriors. Morzan had been born to fight. He had been taken only in heart by a bright-haired girl named Selena. They were her eyes that rested in the young man's face, that were closed against the evils of the world, hers that would glare at him in angry reproach—out of a face that looked like Morzan's.

Galbatorix nearly shrugged in the darkness. Sometimes the best were the ones that fought hardest against being broken. It might be easier if they all saw his way, but that didn't mean things would be more interesting. He would have a chance to see Murtagh's present limits and his potential to be stretched. He would have that chance…tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the twin magicians began the breaking of the boy while he scried them from his throne room, in comfort, with patience, ready to wait as long as it took.

* * *

The sun may have been dancing over the earth outside Urubaen, but within Galbatorix's stronghold its rays were hard-pressed to be seen, and inside the stone cell keeping the king's hoped-for Rider it shone not at all. Not that the Rider could have seen it at all. Murtagh's eyes were shut tightly despite the fact that he was awake. Any minute now, they would come… The thought had been plaguing him since he had been dragged into this cell. He had been bound and forced through the dark, dripping tunnels under Urubaen until the Twins followed a branch to the left and he was taken down many flights of stairs, some of the steps broken and chipped from years of disrepair, and thrown into this cell, one removed from the others—one that had obviously been reserved for his arrival. It was completely dark, but for a small, barred window set high on a wall. It let in some air to lessen the dank odor, but no sun made patterns on the cold, stone floor even after midday from the way the castle was situated. Another nagging thought that had pestered Murtagh was that the castle was purposely arranged around that window so that no direct light could shine in. He dismissed it, as he had for the many lonely hours he had sat here, but did not banish it completely. After all, Galbatorix was insane. He might have ordered his stronghold built any number of ways for any number of reasons.

Footsteps interrupted Murtagh's thoughts but did nothing to lessen the panic fluttering in his stomach. He knew those footsteps. He had heard them every day in the subterranean tunnels after Farthen Dur. He knew exactly who they belonged to and he could guess at the cold smiles on the Twins' faces—the smiles they reserved just for him before they were going to do something particularly ruthless. The cell door opened and he saw them there, black eyes glinting, like two snakes ready for their prey.

They came in, one on each side of him. Murtagh tried to get up but he felt insurmountable pressure on his shoulders, keeping him down. One Twin crouched beside him on the floor, leering at him. Murtagh took a deep breath and set his jaw, willing all his hatred for the two magicians to glow in the depths of his eyes. The crouched Twin hesitated, but then his nostrils flared angrily and he jerked forward to put a hand on Murtagh's forehead.

The hand was cold and soft, never having done any hard labor, but pulsing with a power that vaguely reminded Murtagh of a hammer hitting an anvil. He knew he couldn't move, so he waited, gritting his teeth for the painful blast he was sure would come. He was surprised when, instead, he felt a gentle push at his consciousness. They were trying to enter his mind. He immediately closed his eyes and mentally blocked the Twin. Once he had finished that, there came another push somewhere else. He had only just blocked the feeble attack when another wave came, both Twins pushing at separate spots. It was almost a game. He could always just make it in time before they were somewhere else. He didn't notice that each time they tried again they were stronger, or that his frantic worrying was wearing him down, as was his immediate response to their pushes. And then, so suddenly he hardly knew what had happened, they were through his first barrier, had stepped on his ground.

They had entered his mind before, but this was the first time they had done it while he was conscious and the terror that gripped him was the same he had felt welling in him when they entered the Varden's hold. Their mental pushes were feeble no longer and he vaguely felt them land blows on his body to ruin his concentration. He struggled physically under their grasp, but most of his efforts were focused mentally on strengthening his barriers, the ones they seemed to so easily overcome. Minutes passed and his frustrated desperation mounted. They bypassed where he was strongest and dove into the fragile sides of his walls. They knew all his weak spots, all the places he had yet to fortify. But what was worse was that they _knew_. His own vulnerability was amplified, brought forward from his subconscious and paraded openly until he wanted to retch from his frenzied efforts. They knew everything, not just the bare facts or the sum of his experiences, but _everything_: his emotions tied to certain persons or places, his views, his goals, his plans. And it was all wrenched from him, minute by excruciating minute, and every time he reached out a mental hand to pull them away, they lashed out at him like greedy children defending something that wasn't theirs, and he had to draw back farther and farther to wonder alone if a broken mind could bleed.

Finally, his flailing arm connected with something solid and he hooked his leg around a limb, lunging and flipping with his body so at least he was free. There was a grunt and he could open his eyes, only to see the bloodshot glare of a Twin before fleshy hands felt around his neck and began constricting his airway. He _knew_ that he knew how to fight them off. He had been trained in wrestling since he was a boy. But his mind was too hurt, too burdened and weary, to concentrate anymore. He followed his gut reactions and tried to pry the hands off his neck, but it was no use. Strength against strength when one was trapped…it only ended in darkness.


	7. Memories

**A/N:** I have not abandoned you all (although you may have been thinking it)! Here is a rather long chapter for you. School is (finally) out and I (finally) have a direction to head in with this, so I'm not just sitting around, waiting for my muse to stir some random thing out of the pot. Enjoy! Review!!!

* * *

Galbatorix settled himself near the stone, dragon-carved basin and watched as the water rippled and a picture spread across its surface. It was dark but he could still see the crouched form of Morzan's son and the Twins standing over him. One Twin put his hand to Murtagh's head and soon the force of Murtagh's screams caused the water to ripple, the sound amplified, echoing off the walls.

The time was not long, perhaps thirty minutes, before Murtagh was spent and the Twins left his cell, one bleeding from the face. Galbatorix rose.

His Rider was ready.

* * *

There was a majestic-looking man standing before him in his dream with an air of comfortable belonging and the stance of one who would not leave soon.

_Who are you?_ he wanted to ask.

The man seemed to smile, and gestured with a hand.

_Where are we?_ he asked and the man finally spoke.

_A place you know quite well_, the man answered silkily.

Murtagh's eyes shot open, his own worried voice still echoing in his thoughts. _My mind…_

Yet the man still stood before him. And now he knew who it was.

"I'm not surprised you did not recognize me sooner, our last meetings seem so long ago," Galbatorix said.

"I once memorized every detail of your face so I could hate it whenever I thought of you," Murtagh growled.

"I am touched that you remember our times together." Galbatorix placed a hand on his chest in a mock display of feeling. "But I refuse to let emotion sway me."

"You let emotion rule you when you turned on the faithful Riders, after your dragon died," Murtagh challenged, surging to his feet, voice rising with every word.

The king slowly lifted his hand and Murtagh felt his airway constrict. "I _will not_ be swayed by emotion, Murtagh, so you needn't cry out for my ears," Galbatorix said in a controlled manner that belied his terrible grip.

The hold released abruptly and Murtagh's knees trembled, refusing to hold him up any longer. He fell to the ground, his body falsifying the strength of his words. "I would never scream for your pleasure."

"Oh?"

Suddenly, the man was back in his mind again, running his hand over its walls.

_"Get out!"_ Murtagh bellowed at him.

"My magicians had my permission to force open your mind's door and now I am free to go in or out at my leisure," Galbatorix retorted.

Murtagh grit his teeth. "Get out," he hissed.

Galbatorix's cold laughter was doubly painful when heard from inside himself but for the first time he felt completely powerless. He could not defend himself as he had for the Twins—Galbatorix commanded in a way that left no room for argument, because he did not command at all. He merely wished and it was done, because no one would challenge him.

For the first time, Murtagh felt despair leech into his bones, remaining long after Galbatorix had left his cell. But the king's cackling laughter remained echoing in his mind, and he wondered if he would ever be rid of that insane sound…

* * *

"Come."

Thus began his training as a Rider.

The Twins would train him, grudgingly, in all they knew of magic but were snide toward Murtagh and kept their distance during their sessions together. Murtagh instinctively recoiled from learning the ways to torture a man to extract information, how to kill with a single word, a flick of a finger; but he knew that when the Twins grew tired of him or had taught him all they knew, he would then be under Galbatorix's tutelage, and worse lessons awaited him there. So he took his time, but learned the spells and incantations well so he could recite them at a moment's notice, under threat of pain, under the influence of fear, or when feeling merciful. He learned and the Twins taught him.

Until he was summoned by the king.

He was taken to a large room, nearly empty, but with a mirror taking up one wall. There he was dressed in a finely woven tunic, leggings, his arms cuffed with leather bracers, his feet shod in leather boots. He was surprised when the attendant approached with his hand-and-a-half sword, one that he thought he had lost, and buckled it around his hips. He did not receive an explanation for his apparel until the Twins came to receive him. They stood before the door, robed in green, their fingers pressed together.

"Lord Galbatorix wishes to see his Rider _as_ a Rider," one explained. "Do not draw the sword—it is for the king's pleasure only. You are from a lineage of warriors, Morzansson, and so are garbed as one."

"Most unusual," hissed the other, "but the king is not to be gainsaid."

They swept through the cold halls until they arrived before two golden doors which were slowly drawn open so that they could enter single-file and kneel before the king. The Twins immediately pressed their foreheads to the floor but Murtagh took his time, keeping his icy glare on the king's face before he bowed his head.

Galbatorix surveyed him languidly, but his eyes were sharp with cunning. He flicked his hand to the Twins and they rose, leaving the room and shutting the great doors behind them with an ominous _boom_. The king rose and descended the steps leading to his throne.

"Murtagh," he commented. "It has been several weeks since I last spoke with you." He waved a hand and a dark table with an ornate chair at each end appeared in the middle of the room. "How goes your training?"

Murtagh followed the king to the table and stiffly sat down. He knew these chairs, this table…even the plates and goblets were the same. He lifted his goblet to his lips, hoping that his hand did not tremble noticeably, and swallowed the dark liquid. Galbatorix was watching him, almost eagerly.

"I see that you recall the last time we ate together, you and I. But that was many years ago, wasn't it? Perhaps you do not remember exactly what was said."

"I remember your offer," Murtagh said, his voice sounding childish compared to the king's.

"Ah, you have a sharp memory, boy, just as your father did. He served me well, an old friend. And your mother, you know. She was very useful upon a time." Galbatorix lifted his own goblet and pondered it. "And what of you, young Murtagh? How will you serve your king?"

When Murtagh set down the goblet he could clearly see indentations where his fingers had gripped too tightly.

Galbatorix abruptly rose. "I would like to see what you have in mind…if you will." He did not need to put his hand against Murtagh's head, as the Twins had. Instead it seemed as though it was only a moment of blinding pain before he was through the barriers, rifling through the pages of Murtagh's memories with all the care of a blacksmith in a room of glass. Murtagh lurched forward, unintentionally knocking over his goblet so red wine ran over the table, and gripped his head in both hands, feeling as though it would explode. So many voices in it, so many cries! Not his memories, those were not safe, not from Galbatorix, but the voices tormented him, a constant torment, more than the jabs of the king in his mind.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Galbatorix remained standing, looking at Murtagh who was slumped over the table with a feral gleam in his cold eyes.

"So," he whispered harshly, his hands clenching his robes. "So…the Varden are established in Farthen Dur. And there is another Rider, your brother, just as the magicians told me. A Rider…and the dragon is female?"

Murtagh's head snapped up at this question, his hand automatically moving stealthily toward the hilt of his sword. "Did my memories not tell you that?" he snarled, standing slowly to his full height and drawing his sword. Galbatorix's eyes narrowed but he made no move.

"Your father tried to stop me once, too, Morzansson. That cell you sleep in at night, he slept there as well—until he listened to reason," Galbatorix said quietly, his voice a deep thrumming that made Murtagh want to give in.

"It is not reason, what you are asking me to do."

"What am I asking you to do?"

"You want me to be my father to you. Eragon has escaped your grasp, he's with the Varden. Morzan is dead. And I am the only legacy he left that is within your reach." Murtagh lifted his sword as Galbatorix began moving toward him, his hands held out in a gesture of appeal.

"Ah, Murtagh, you see clearly into my mind."

"You already looked into mine," Murtagh growled. Galbatorix was three feet away from him and he trained his sword just over the tyrant's heart. "So you must have learned something. But if you did not accept it when you saw it there, you may understand me better if I say it aloud: _I will never serve you_."

Galbatorix opened his mouth as though to say something, but then froze there and a great laugh rolled out of his open mouth, almost as if it was not the king who was laughing, but something else. "Oh, Murtagh, I did see your intentions. I know your greatest fears and thoughts. I know it all." He spread his hands, drawing out each word. "Let me tell you what I saw: you will serve me before you die."

Galbatorix turned with a strange smile on his face and Murtagh let his sword fall, feeling drained. Two heralds came to take him back to his cell and he was sure that was the end of it. Galbatorix may take over his training but he would never be able to force Murtagh to be a Rider.

Yet the echoes of the king's words still turned in Murtagh's head. _You will serve me before you die…serve me…before you die…serve…_

That night Murtagh woke to find an open chest at his feet. Inside, were the two dragon eggs.


	8. Thorn

**A/N: **Alright, due to **Torilei** reviewing basically every other story that I've written, I have decided to give you the chapter. Hmm, maybe I should do a dedication. Umm...okay! This is for **Brandi**, wherever you are, doing whatever you do. Miss you, girl!

* * *

A light wind whistled through the barred window set high in the stone wall of Murtagh's cell. It barely caressed the dark-haired youth's face as he slept on the opposite side of the cell from an iron chest. The breeze sifted through the chest and then fled back through the window as one of the eggs shifted.

The red one.

Murtagh kept his eyes closed tightly even though he heard the small _clink_ as one of the dragon eggs shifted against the metal chest. He had heard it moving for the past hour and he wished that he could stop it, freeze or reverse time, find a way to bind the egg and keep it from hatching.

It had been all he could do to restrain his curiosity and not look into the chest. It was open, beckoning to him every time he heard a small, muffled mewling from inside. _That_ had started only a few minutes ago. And he had quickly scurried to the opposite side of his cell. He had thought about the choice ever since he woke to find the chest at his feet and he had decided that he could not become a Rider—not for Galbatorix. For the Varden, perhaps, if they chose to accept him. But he could not, _would_ not, sentence the helpless creature inside one of those eggs to a life of pain and torment and fear. He would not sentence another to the life that had been chosen for him.

But apparently, from the scrabbling inside the chest, one of the creatures had decided that it _would_ sentence itself to the life that Murtagh led.

Against his will, Murtagh's eyes flew open when he heard a final crack and the sound of the chest tipping over. A flash of red caught the corner of his eye before he shut them again resolutely and covered his face with his hands.

_No. No, no, no, no!_

There was the sound of small talons clicking on the stone floor, and then something gently bumped its head against his covered face. Murtagh slowly moved two fingers aside and peered through the crack his fingers made.

Vermilion jewels stared back at him.

He moved his hands away from his face. Quickly the little dragon pressed its forelegs to his chest and bumped its head against his left hand before he could jerk it away. A sharp jolt of energy rent through him, not painful, but surprising, and full of another identity that he could have sworn wanted to be melded with his. And then it was gone, leaving only a silver-tinged scar on his palm and a small, red dragon curled up on his chest, its body vibrating as though it was purring.

_No, no! Not a dragon—this wasn't supposed to happen!_

The dragon opened an eye and stared at him in reproach, snapping its little jaws.

Murtagh let his arms fall to his sides as he laid his head back down on the cold stone. Tears were pressing on the back of his eyelids, threatening to garner sobs from him as they leaked down into the hair near his temples.

He had sworn this would never happen. He had sworn, long ago, after Tornac, his faithful mentor and friend, had told him of his past, of the origins of the scar on his back, that he would never wish something did not exist if it depended on him for either happiness or survival. And here he was, so close to failing his promise and wishing that the dragon nestled on his chest had never lived.

_Things are different! I am a prisoner of Galbatorix. I am weak, I am vulnerable—I can't protect you! I'm afraid to fail…._

He abruptly rolled to his feet and the dragon, not once caught off guard, caught itself in midair with its ungainly wings, twirled once or twice around his booted feet, and then settled itself down with its paws hooked around his ankle.

Murtagh gazed down at it and gradually felt the panicked tension fade from his trembling frame. Like it or not, he could not change what had happened. Like it or not, he did not want to. This little dragon had chosen him, had fought through the physical layers of its shell and would fight through the emotional layers of his. It was a task he had been given, to care for and love it to the best of his ability. Murtagh crouched down and hesitantly pulled the purring dragon into his arms. It burrowed into his chest as though wanting to disappear inside him, wrapped even its little tail around his back, and then settled its head down on his shoulder so it could watch him with one gleaming eye. He lifted his hand and gently rubbed its head, gazing absentmindedly at the shining scar on his left hand. It had hurt him to gain it, but the pain was worth the reward.

_My thorn,_ he thought quietly, settling himself down to sleep until morning came. _Thorn_…


	9. Why

_"You saw nothing, just as I saw nothing the times I tried to __scry__ you during my days in __Uru'baen__."_ –Murtagh

* * *

Murtagh squinted his eyes against the blinding sun and tried to concentrate on what the Twin was saying. Something about drawing water from his surroundings, but it was difficult to focus… Sweat crawled down the back of his tunic, making it stick to him. The sun never shown like this in his cell, and he always missed it then. But here, out in the open courtyard, blinding, blinding sun…

_Crack!_

Murtagh grunted as the Twin brought a stave down across his back. He needed to concentrate, just get through the rest of this lesson… Be thankful it wasn't…

Galbatorix.

The king was striding purposefully toward them, an unsheathed sword in his hand. The Twin bowed and backed away, leaving Murtagh to face Galbatorix alone. The king looked unnaturally pleased and did not comment when Murtagh flinched when he touched his shoulder.

"Ah, I see you are just concluding your magic lesson, young Murtagh." He nodded once to the Twin to dismiss him and then turned his full, probing attention to the tense young man before him. "I also hear that you have indeed become a Rider."

"Aye," Murtagh ground out, staring at a spot beyond Galbatorix.

"You must be so pleased—of all those who have touched the egg, the red one hatched for you." Galbatorix chuckled like a proud father. "Well _done_, Murtagh. We can begin our training immediately, as soon—"

Panic flooded Murtagh's mind. "He's too young," he blurted. Galbatorix pressed his lips together in a warning line but Murtagh continued, "Dragons are trained after they have grown for several months; Thorn is far too young to begin training."

"Hmm, Thorn. Is that what you have decided to name him? Unusual…so commonplace; very unlike yourself, Morzansson. You do have a heritage to be proud of, warriors to the king, and here you defend your dragon from his purpose…?"

"I mean to keep him from all that is in store until he is ready to bear the burden."

Galbatorix came very close to Murtagh's face, putting a knuckle underneath his chin to make him look at him. "And this is advice for me to apply, is it? Concerning a certain young Rider?" When Murtagh made no answer, Galbatorix lightly commented, "I think it is time to begin our lessons together, Murtagh. You have so much to learn—things only I can teach you. Call your dragon."

"I have yet to learn…"

"I will _teach you_! Now call him!"

Murtagh worked his jaw and then concentrated with all his might, focusing on his thoughts as he had seen Eragon doing with Saphira. _Thorn?_

A mental squeak of delight met him and he grinned in spite of himself. He was sent a visual image of his dragon, now the length of his shin, hurtling down the stairs to the courtyard. More often than not, the baby dragon tripped over some and had to catch itself with its wings before it ended in a heap.

Galbatorix's face positively glowed with pleasure although a cloud of anger crossed his face at the way Thorn twirled between Murtagh's legs with pleasure, mewling all the while. Murtagh picked Thorn up and held him to his chest with a stony expression but it was plain to the king that Murtagh was guarding Thorn in that simple motion.

"I can sense that your bond is strong. It will be easy, therefore, for you both to open your minds and share your lessons with each other."

"Why will that be necessary if Thorn and I are working together?" Murtagh asked, a hard note in his voice.

"Thorn will be trained by Shruikan. You will be trained by me."

_Shruikan__…_ Murtagh knew the name could only refer to one thing: Galbatorix's dragon. He felt Thorn tremble in his arms and his hold tightened. It would be no use to argue. They would only be punished.

Reluctantly, he relinquished Thorn to Galbatorix who stroked the dragon a few times and then whispered close to its head where it was to go. Then he turned to Murtagh and motioned him to follow. They climbed the stairs to a sparsely furnished room, empty but for a bed, a chair and table, and a pedestal upon which was set a wide basin filled to the brim with water.

"There," Galbatorix said triumphantly. "We will begin the first lesson." He flicked back his sleeves and leaned over the basin, motioning for Murtagh to do the same. "Look into the basin and say the words _draumr__kopa_. Think of what you want to see." Murtagh obediently began the incantation, but was stopped when Galbatorix put a hand on his arm. "Scry the Varden."

Murtagh breathed in deeply and focused again on the task before him. It seemed like such a simple thing, but his mind kept straying to Thorn…

"The Varden, Murtagh," Galbatorix repeated and Murtagh shut his eyes to better picture the object before he snapped them open. He had succeeded.

And he had never felt so wretched.

He obeyed immediately when Galbatorix tersely ordered him away, following the path away from the bare room and into the sun-filled courtyard. Doubtless, Thorn was still with Shruikan. The urge to scry his young dragon filled Murtagh and he looked around him for a puddle or some form of water. A bucket by the stables offered itself and he knelt by it eagerly, whispering the words as though they were forbidden, and then watching as Thorn appeared in the water, stretching its wings in various fashions. Murtagh could sense his dragon's excitement at Shruikan's announcement that in time these exercises would help in aerial battle maneuvers. Murtagh grinned and let the image fade.

Suddenly the thought occurred to him: Eragon. He wanted to scry his brother--a desire that was best fulfilled in secret. Glancing around him, he filled the flask at his hip and made his way to his room. Once there, he shut the door, bolted it, and poured the water from the flask into a shallow basin. Determinedly settling on his knees once more, he closed his eyes to concentrate on the image of Eragon's face, and then uttered the words to bring the image to life.

Nothing.

Perhaps he wasn't concentrating hard enough. Or perhaps Eragon was in a place too far for his weak magic to reach. He tried again. And again.

"Draumr kopa," he said firmly, willing the image to come. It was black. "Draumr kopa. Draumr kopa!" He finally roared the words, not caring if Galbatorix knew of his pitiful attempts to connect with something outside of Uru'baen.

Nothing.

Weary from his efforts with the elusive magic and worn from his lack of success, he pushed the basin away disgustedly. Why was it so difficult? It had worked before…

"I need to know," he whispered into the air. The sun was setting and his room grew colder, nearly as bare as the stone cell had been. "I need to know why."

He sat up and dragged the basin back, and doggedly continued. "Draumr kopa." _I need to know._ "Draumr kopa." _I need to know why._ "Draumr—" _Help me know why, Eragon._

The sun set, rolling away for inky blackness to come, and then cycled the earth to rise again. Its tip just touched the horizon, turning the black to gray, when Murtagh finally collapsed in an exhausted heap. Tomorrow… Tomorrow he would try again.

* * *

Murtagh rubbed a hand over his aching knees. It was an effort for him to stand up after his sessions of trying to scry Eragon. He had been surprised that after the first two days Galbatorix had not sent for him nor had he been called for any kind of training. It was almost as if he was in his cell again, locked away until he was wanted. No matter. He wanted the time to himself to continue in his self-set task. He knew his magic was becoming stronger. He had scryed most of the places and people he knew and could draw their images to the basin nearly without concentrating. But whenever he searched for Eragon…black. Nothing.

On the fourth day, he lay on his side near the basin, looking at it and hating the sight. He was so weary, but he needed to know. Desperation clutched as his heart as hunger clawed at his belly. He was afraid, and the fear was gnawing at him until he had trouble thinking beyond the simple question, _Wh_y? Why did he defy Galbatorix, when all it earned him was pain? Why did he try so hard to defend Eragon? Why, when Galbatorix knew all? And suddenly he realized that his whys had become why nots. Why not become a Rider under the king's command, unite Alagaesia once more? Why not follow in his father's footsteps?

Who was he becoming that he would think such thoughts? It startled him to look at his questions in the face, but they did not come as a surprise. No, he had long known he harbored such thoughts. And that's when he knew he was terrified by himself. He needed answers, a reminder of who he was and why he did the things he did or he would certainly lose his mind.

"That's happened already," he growled into the darkness and pulled a blanket over his shoulders to ward off the coming chill. "My one sanctuary…"

He fell into a fitful sleep, one that had dreams populated by the questions, and they all came around him, drowning him. _Eragon!_ he called, but then he remembered with sadness that he had tried to scry Eragon and he couldn't, Eragon was gone from him. So he turned to his next help. _Thorn!_


	10. Into Battle

Galbatorix's lips curled with pleasure. His Rider was kneeling before him, submitting to his will. He had seen much of Murtagh's will over the past weeks, and the young man's distaste for orders only made him rise in his king's opinion. And still Murtagh bowed before him, waiting for his command.

"I have trained you well, Murtagh."

His Rider said nothing.

"You are as strong as your father Morzan. And I have more lessons to teach you that will make you stronger still. Perform this task, and I will take you into my confidence. Fail, and punishment will be sure."

"Yes, my lord."

"The Varden and the dwarves gather for battle. They expect a Rider. I intend to give them one." Galbatorix's eyes were hard on Murtagh's impassive face. "You will be announced by the captains' horns and by drums. Do not let yourself be seen before then. Do not participate in the battle in any way until the time when I have commanded you."

"I would do nothing to endanger Thorn," said Murtagh's steely voice.

Galbatorix smiled indulgently. "Ah, yes, your dragon. As large as the blue one now, no doubt, and just as strong. He's a fine match for you. You've grown as quickly as your brother, Murtagh, and you have the advantage of age and experience. I look forward to hearing of your victory."

Murtagh knew he was dismissed. He wheeled on his heel and stalked out of the hall, his boots echoing on the stone floor and sounding to his ears like the drums that would herald his approach in battle. He had been outfitted as Galbatorix's Rider, encased in steel armor and given his familiar hand-and-a-half sword. He took his helmet from the armory and went out into the courtyard where a similarly armored Thorn was waiting. Now easily the size of Eragon's dragon, its scales glittered in the moonlight as though they were wet. To Murtagh, they looked like they were covered in blood, and he felt like he was marching to his doom.

_Stop!_ cried a voice in his head. _Eragon__ is a friend, your brother!_

_Eragon__ is nothing to me,_ he argued with himself.

_You have waited for this, you have wanted this. He's your blood!_

_I will spill __his, _Murtagh countered. But still the voice kept on. Pride, honor, respect, it argued, were at risk. Take Galbatorix as master and lose all!

"But I have lost all!" he growled, buckling his sword to Thorn's saddle.

_You have doubts?_ Thorn's voice entered his swirling thoughts.

"I've weighed my choices and I've made my decision. I don't know anymore, but soon I will."

_Then we fly for battle?_

Murtagh nodded grimly, climbing into the saddle and gripping tightly as Thorn rose into the air with a roar. His dragon was prime for battle, ready and eager for it. He was fully trained, his subconscious already rifling through strategies for war, defensive and offensive movements, and the best way to both rally and goad the troops under his command.

But still the voice kept on, his conscience making a last stand before it was cut down in pitiable silence. And for the moment, he ignored it. Now, things were different. Now, things had changed. Now, he was where he had been before, before when he was trapped by Galbatorix. He had had his time of relief, his escape as a time of training and rest before he had to return and make his decisions, face his fears or succumb to them. He knew he was succumbing and was trying to defend what he was becoming from what he had been and still wanted to be. But things had changed. He needed to know. His mind needed to be filled, it could not be his peaceful sanctuary anymore because it had been invaded and tempted with ultimate knowledge. It was peaceful no longer; it was no more his refuge. He had Thorn, a dragon trained for war, as his refuge and single friend. His choice had not begun as his own, but he had not had the strength to turn back from the path Galbatorix had forcefully set him on.

He did not have the strength now. That was why he rode his dragon, girded for war, against a young man who was his brother and greatest friend under the command of a madman he had once sworn never to serve. The hopeless irony of it made tears slide down the gilded breastplate. The great red dragon tilted its head as it flew and it shuddered with the force of its Rider's pain. But it had chosen too, under the same uneven circumstances as its Rider.

So they both would take their battles into war.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, you all thought I was dead. -smirk- Sorry this chapter is so short, but at least it's something, right? I can't write anything else for this until I have Eldest in front of me and I can do it according to the book's timeline, so don't expect an update until December. By then I'll be on break. 


End file.
